


Auroral Light

by voicedimplosives



Series: Atmospheric Optics for Beginners [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Austria, BAMF Darcy Lewis, BAMF Jane Foster, Bucky Barnes Feels, Darcy Lewis Tries to Make Things Right, England (Country), Eventual Smut, F/M, Feels, Gen, Major Illness, Romance, Scotland, Secrets, Siberia, Summer Vacation, Supportive Female Friendship, Text Messages, Women Being Awesome, You suck Thor, romania - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-22 22:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11976180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voicedimplosives/pseuds/voicedimplosives
Summary: And finally, there was a message from the number she hadn't had the heart to save in her contacts. The Romanian number. After reading it, she felt like her lips had gone numb and her head was swimming. She lowered her head between her knees and tried to think rationally, but all she could hear on an endless loop were the words, 'I think about you every day.'”





	1. Pretext

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. This is the sequel to [Fata Morgana](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11967066/chapters/27062376). I tried as best I could to include enough background so that you can read this on its own if you want, but to fully understand what's going on I would recommend going back and reading that one first.
> 
> Just in case anyone is getting confused, this first chapter takes place basically immediately after Avengers: Age of Ultron (about a year after the events of Fata Morgana). It's kind of a slow start, I know, but then in chapter two and for the rest of the story, we've moved forward in time to the events directly before, during, and after Captain America: Civil War (about two years after Fata Morgana).
> 
> Finally, this fic deals with the major, life-threatening illness of a major character. I'll go ahead and spoil the ending: this person's not going to die. It's a plot point I actually took from the comics, although I haven't read them and just took the idea, interpreting it in a way I found interesting and that I thought worked for this story. But if think something like this might be upsetting for you to read and you'd like to know what you're getting yourself into beforehand, you can check out the **[SPOILERS]** Wikipedia summary [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Foster_\(comics\)) **[The plot point is in section 2.4]**. Otherwise, read on!

Clint sat down heavily in the chair in front of her. He looked at her, his large eyes doleful. “Nat,” he pleaded, “You know I've gotta do it. Laura watched an entire city, the city _I_ was inside of fighting for my life no less, fly up into the sky... and fall back to Earth. She's a patient woman, but... she's not a masochist.”

“No,” Natasha demurred, “I suppose not.” She looked at him coolly. “Is this really just about her and the kids though, Clint?”

“Oh, c'mon. You'd probably be trying to do the same, if Bruce had stuck around long enough to let you sucker him into it.”

She huffed quietly to herself. When she met his gaze, she confessed, “I tried. I asked him to leave with me.”

“And?” Clint asked.

“Just... too complicated, I think. On both sides. Maybe some day.”

“Why don't you get out anyway? Thought you were a strong, independent woman. Thought you didn't need a man to tell you what to do.” He grinned, but when she gave him a sharp sideways glance, he raised his hands in surrender. “Have it your way.”

“Clint, what I meant before was, are you sure this isn't about Maximoff?”

It was Clint's turn to look defensive. He snapped, “What could I have done, Nat? He took a bullet. It happens in war.”

“You know _I_ know that, Hawkeye,” she argued, “Do _you_?”

“You know what I know? I know why Banner wouldn't leave with you, Nat. Because he knows, deep down, just like you do, that you'll never leave this life. Not for good. It's what you are.” He was looking to hurt her now, to strike at the very heart of her like she did to him whenever she was disappointed, but of course like always he was met merely with a mask of cool disregard.

“Is that how you want to leave things with us, Clint? After everything we've been through?”

He stood, his head hanging, and sighed. “Of course not. Get over here and give me a goodbye hug, wish me a happy retirement. You know, like how friends do.”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and he squeezed her gently before releasing her. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered. 

“You too. Don't work too hard, huh?”

She nodded, stepped back, and watched him walk out the front door of Tony Stark's Avenger compound. She managed a small smile when he looked back to wave at her. They'd had a good run, Black Widow and Hawkeye. Wiped a lot of red from the ledger.

*

“Darcy Anne! Are you still asleep up there? Come on, I could really use your help down here!”

Darcy opened one eye blearily and blindly groped around for her glasses on the night stand beside her bed. She switched on the lamp and rolled over onto her back, looking towards the foot of her bed and out through the large picture window situated across the guest room. The sleepy, tree-lined avenue in front of the house was golden in the late afternoon light.

She'd been dreaming of him again, of course. Over a year later and there he still was. He was like a damn glitch in the machinery of her mind, and try as she might to fall asleep concentrating on fence-jumping sheep or Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, she almost inevitably woke up with her limbs tingling, cunt throbbing and the ghostly sensation of his mouth on her. 

She blinked owlishly, trying to guess how long she'd been napping. She'd arrived at her mom's house around eleven thirty, had spent maybe an hour sitting at their large mahogany dining-room table awkwardly drinking coffee and catching up, then had retreated to their extra bedroom to pass out around one or so. It was... maybe five o'clock?

She rolled over to the night stand again, and opened her beat-up old flip phone. Four fifteen. Darcy frowned, disoriented by the three hours of sleep, the vivid dreams and the unsettling sensation of waking up in a strange place.

“ _DARCY_!”

“Okay, mom, sorry! I'm coming!” she shouted, still making no move to get out of the exceptionally comfortable bed. Everything in Harold's house was like this, comfortable and tasteful and expensive. She ran her hands along the thousand count sheets, allowing her mind one more minute to linger in the world of her dream.

Then, practically feeling her mom's annoyance projecting at her from the kitchen, she pushed herself up and out of the lux bedding. Turning back she whispered to the bedding, “Don't worry my pretties, I'll be back soon enough for you.”

*

“So, who's going to start? Harry? What are you thankful for?” Her mom was two glasses of wine into the evening and seemed to be in good enough spirits. Darcy was barely listening, consumed with the Thanksgiving meal in front of her. She speared a piece of turkey, dragging through it the gravy and mashed potatoes before lifting it to her mouth and moaning exaggeratedly.

“Potatoes good, Darcy?” Harold grinned at her from his place at the head of the elegantly decorated table. “Mashed 'em myself. Your mom likes to put me to work in her kitchen.”

Darcy smiled politely with her mouth closed, still savoring the taste of home-made gravy. Her eyes returned to the plate in front of her. Her mom tried again, “Okay, I'll go first. I'm thankful my baby has _finally_ decided to take a break from her big important job making Facebook posts and grace us with her-”

“Elaine.” Harold had turned sharply at her mom's words, resting his hand on top of hers and attempting to head off the fight she was so clearly spoiling to have.

“I'm thankful I finished the semester with a four point oh GPA and that I'm almost finished all my grad school applications,” her step-brother Sean offered from across the table from Darcy, where he'd been silently shoveling food into his mouth for the last three minutes. He was already on his second helping. Nobody Darcy had ever known in her life could put away food like Sean could, yet as she sat there taking in the sharp clavicles visible from underneath his sweater, his thin arms, bony elbows, and long, delicate fingers, Darcy could not for the life of her say where those calories were going.

“Where are you applying, Sean?” she asked.

“Columbia, U Penn, Harvard, Darmouth and Brown,” he listed, shoveling a truly astronomical forkful of stuffing into his mouth.

“And he's going to have his pick of the litter, aren't you Sean? _I'm_ thankful for how dedicated and smart you are. That's what I'm thankful for, your ambition,” her mom said waspishly, managing the elegant feat of complimenting her step-son and getting an under-handed jab in at her daughter in one breath.

Darcy looked down at her plate again, feeling her appetite waning. Do not cry, she thought. Don't you dare cry.

“I'm grateful Darcy is here too, Elaine, and I'm grateful that things are going so well for her in D.C. And... I suppose I'm grateful for how well this quarter has been going for us. And that I still have a few months of freedom left before tax season really starts up and I'm buried in paperwork,” her step-dad grinned, taking a sip of his beer and sighing contentedly. “You, Darce?” 

Darcy looked around the table, at a loss for what to say. These people, her supposed family, didn't know her friends. They didn't know Jane. They sure as hell didn't know Bucky, except maybe from the news, which... would not exactly endear them to him. “I'm grateful we're all healthy and happy?” she tried, knowing it was trite and bullshit to boot.

“Are we?” Her mother's head tilted as she turned to her with a moue of irritation on her face that pulled the edges of her mouth downward, wine glass swinging loosely from her hand.

“Yeah, mom. We are,” she lied.

*

Later, sitting on the plush leather couch in their tastefully appointed living room, Sean shook his head at the program they were watching. “Crazy,” he said quietly.

Darcy turned from My 600 Lb Life and looked at him skeptically. “What, that the producers at TLC can sleep at night?”

“No,” he shook his head, “That these people can come back from this kind of life. It's... I think it's inspiring. I've been thinking, maybe, I'd like to do that.”

Her brow furrowed. “Gain, like, five hundred and fifty pounds?”

Sean tittered. “No, idiot,” he said again, his sharp elbow jerking out towards Darcy as he pointed at the TV, “The surgery. Surgery like that. You can make a lot of money. But... also, you help people. Help give them back to themselves.”

The turn of phrase struck Darcy, a vision of Bucky's elegant cursive conjuring in her mind, and she turned her head back to the television. She swallowed and closed her eyes. When she opened them Sean was watching her uneasily, but he quickly slid his face back towards the television, pretending like he hadn't been.

“That's a really cool idea, beanpole,” she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.

*

“Heading back already?” Her mom was standing just inside the doorway of the bedroom, hovering, wringing her hands. “It's only Sunday. I thought you said you were taking tomorrow off. I told my book club you'd come, we do lunch and drinks on Mondays. I know you haven't read our book, it's Obama's autobiography by the way and I think there's a lot you could learn from it, but... well, I've told them a lot about you, Darcy Anne. They're excited to meet you.”

Darcy looked up from the duffel bag she'd been stuffing clothes into. “I... I can't, mom. It's just... I have a lot of stuff to take care of back home,” she lied, again, for the umpteenth time.

Her mom's mouth turned down and for one minute they looked at each other in tense silence. Elaine glanced away first, pulling one of Darcy's sweaters off the nearby lounge chair and folding it slowly. “I know you don't like it here, you know. I know you don't like Harry. I know you don't like this beautiful house or our lovely neighborhood,” she paused, scoffing, “Although for the life of me I can't figure out why.”

“No, mom, I like Harry. I like Sean, too. He's really smart, isn't he? They're both nice. This house is nice and South Charleston is nice. Everything here is nice, really, and...and... I'm sorry. I am. Each time I come here I promise myself I'm gonna try harder. Every time I think I'm gonna figure out how to just relax here. But I just feel... I'm an outsider here, mom. This is _your_ home, your life.”

“It could be your's too, girlie. If you'd let them, Harry and Sean both-”

“I know, no, I know,” Darcy interrupted hastily, trying to head off an argument they'd already had too many times, “They're so generous. They're really great, seriously. It's just...” She looked up at her mom desperately from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, willing her to just understand for once. The expression on her mother's face shifted and she crossed the room, then crouched by her daughter, handing her the sweater before leaning back to sit against the end of the bed. She stretched her legs out in front of her.

“They're not Dad,” her mom said quietly.

“No,” she swallowed, unable to stop the tears from welling in her eyes. 

“Oh, Darcy Anne,” her mom choked out. “I know it. Your father and I, there was no love lost between us by the time we split up. But Good Lord in the Heavens above did that man adore you. His little girl.” She reached out her hand, brushed a stray piece of hair out of Darcy's face. “It hasn't been easy, has it?” she asked quietly.

Darcy said nothing; the tears were falling freely down her cheeks, over her jaw, and down her neck. She turned her face away, then felt her mother's hand reach out to touch her shoulder, sliding along her neck and pulling her in. She went willingly, embracing the woman for the first time in years as she allowed herself this moment to weep into her shoulder like she had when she was a child. 

“It's been a tough couple years, Mom,” she confided, shaking, unable to give the reasons but even at that very simple confession feeling something within her that had been tightly wound, loosen, and then give way. Her mom pet the back of her head gently.

“I know, honey,” she answered.

*

Harry sat quietly beside her, hands at ten and two on the wheel, while he waited for the light to change. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts but turned his head and smiled tightly at her before turning his attention back to the road, accelerating the car when the light turned green. The silence had settled over them as soon as they'd left the driveway, after she'd ribbed Sean good-naturedly, hugged her mom for a full minute, then thrown her bags onto the back seat. When they pulled into the parking lot of the bus station, he cleared his throat.

“We're, uh, we're glad you came to visit Darcy. Sorry you had to cut the visit short, but glad you could make it. Your mother... I just think she worries. But she doesn't mean anything by it, I don't think.”

She nodded, eyes focused on the row of idling buses in front of them. “I know. It's okay. We talked about it, a little, while I was packing.”

He nodded, looking relieved, and twisted his body to grab something from his back pocket.

“Well look, my data plan just turned over last week which means that I got to upgrade my phone. I've got this old StarkPhone, it's not the latest model or anything but I noticed somehow you're still using that prehistoric relic-”

“I had a smart phone, but... it broke,” she said, remembering the pieces of black plastic and glass scattered across a street in London, knocked out of her hand during a moment of chaos.

“Well, I want you to take this one, okay?” In his hand was a slightly used, but otherwise unmarred phone. Darcy admired the smooth glass front, accepting it from Harry and relishing the cool weight of it in her hand. She looked at him curiously, the question sticking in her throat for lack of knowing how to ask it tactfully.

“I, yeah... I didn't give it to you in front of your mom. She, hah, she accuses me of trying to buy your favor sometimes.” He grinned self-deprecatingly. “That's not what this is. It's just an old phone. And... okay, maybe a little bit of trying to win you over.”

Darcy smiled back at him, rolled the phone in her hand before tucking it away in the pocket of her coat. The olive branch had been extended, she thought, as she looked at Harry's friendly, slightly pudgy, face... and it was probably about time she extend one back. 

“Mission accomplished. I'm team Harry and Elaine all the way,” she teased gently, thinking maybe she'd accept her mom's invitation to come back for Christmas after all.


	2. Plain Text

**+40 21 200 3300** : Hi, Darcy. Is this still your phone number? I hope it is.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : This is James.  


*

Another unbearably humid summer in D.C., another round of scandals, Darcy thought crossly as she sat on the train's uncomfortable bench seat, scrolling through the headlines on her phone. Besides Thor's epic dick move this past winter and the many, many Two Cocktail Minimum Calls that had ensued between her and Jane, things had been pretty quiet lately. So she supposed they were all just about due for some excitement. 

Things had been going well at work at least; she was coming up on her two year anniversary as the Social Media Content Coordinator for the Smithsonian Museums and Darcy was pretty sure by this point she could do the job in her sleep.

She had even gone on a couple of dates with Cute Jake from the Publicity Department; after six months of waiting and growing resentment towards Bucky she'd grown weary of feeling like her life was over and had marched into Jake's office, announcing that she thought he was cute and would like to socialize in an extracurricular fashion with him. It had turned out that despite his very cute cuteness they didn't really have much in common, but they'd settled into a chummy workplace camaraderie that definitely helped on the days when she felt trapped in her tiny office, forever updating the world on the Smithsonian's eleven billion weekly “special events”. 

She'd dated a few other guys after that. Some hook-ups she met online, a friends with benefits thing with a very cute personal trainer from her gym, a fellow volunteer from the Potomac River Cleanup Group. That one, Theo, had lasted about six months and hovered on the verge of Serious Relationship territory before he'd started dropping hints he'd like to move in together and she suddenly couldn't seem to find time for him in her busy schedule anymore.

So she was focused on her career, so what? She could feel that a change would need to happen soon and she was preparing herself for it; it was almost time to start looking around for something a little more related to where she wanted to be in her life. Maybe her mom had been... not entirely wrong... about everything. She could probably use a little more ambition.

And what is it, exactly, that you're supposed to be striving towards? She wondered critically. Politics? Maybe. Or maybe you should stay in the publicity field. She did enjoy a lot of what she did, and she was good at it. She just wanted a job that didn't chain her to a computer all day long. It'd be nice if she felt like she was making some difference in the world, the way so many of the people around her were. She cringed, thinking about the inevitable conversation with Larson that would need to happen. The guy was so sweet, had become something of a father surrogate for her in the past two years, and it was not going to be easy to say good-bye.

Her mind wandered, returning to her mom and her step-family. They'd turned a corner this past winter, really started talking honestly to one another, and she'd been taking the bus to visit them about one weekend a month since Thanksgiving. Things were good. Harry was teaching her to golf, and she in turn was teaching Sean about the wonders of losing terribly to her at Mario Kart. Her mom had started opening up a little more about her dad, sharing some happier memories from when they'd first started dating and the early years of her parents' marriage. It was... nice. Healthy.

She checked the clock on her phone, decided she had time to grab a cappuccino as she made her way towards the metro exit and headed up the stairs with the rest of the work-a-day crowd. She'd just stepped into Pret a Manger when her phone chirped at her from inside her bag. She pulled it out as she stepped onto the end of the serpentine line, frowning in confusion at the two texts. 

Who the hell was James?  


*

**+40 21 200 3300** : Hi, Darcy. Is this still your phone number? I hope it is.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : This is James.

 **202 867 5309** : james who? sorry don't think i know a james... :-/  


*

“Vell, Ja-ayne, I can feel ze lump you vere telling me about. Does zis hurt you?” The kindly Austrian gynecologist pressed her fingers into the side of Jane's right breast and involuntarily, Jane gasped. “Yes,” Jane replied stiffly.

“And zis?” now the doctor was probing around her right nipple. “Yes,” Jane gritted out again. “Zis?” she asked, pushing her fingers firmly into Jane's right armpit. “Ah, uh, yes,” Jane gasped, breathless from the pain.

“Okay ve're all finished now, you can put your shirt back on. I'm sorry zat vas hurting you. I sink we need to do ze mammogram. Are you available zis afternoon? I believe ve can fit you in, und I vant to get a better look at vat's going on as soon as possible.”

Jane's eyes widened and she tried hopelessly to push back at the fear rushing in from all sides. “Yeah, just let me make a couple calls,” she replied flatly, her thoughts a snarling mess as a cold, panicky sweat trickled down her back.  


*

“Asa de, există o toaletă comună. Este la capătul holului. Prețul de închiriere este o mie de leu. Colectez numai plata în numerar sau cec bancar. A intelege?"

Bucky nodded his head, looking around the dingy, soulless apartment. Two hundred and fifty bucks and I don't even have my own toilet? he thought skeptically. Still, the location was good. The stern, prim landlady's demand of only cash worked for him, since it's not like he could open a bank account even if he wanted to. It would have to do.

“Inteleg,” he muttered, the language still strange on his tongue after months of speaking Russian while working with an anti-HYDRA paramilitary operation in Ukraine.

“Câte luni vrei în avans?” he asked, wandering just how much money he'd need to put up now.

“Unul singur,” she said, her voice softening as she took in his weary stance and unshaven face. “Plătiți în timp ce mergeți. Eu colectez banii în prima zi a fiecărei luni...

Mă plătiți acum, locuiți aici astăzi,” she offered.

He could do that, he had made enough with the Ukrainians to put down one month's rent and keep himself going for a few more if necessary. This flat would suffice. He wondered, absently, if there wasn't a green market nearby. It'd been a while since he'd been to Bucharest but he seemed to remember the fresh fruit, sold by local farmers in the open-air produce markets, as being especially good.

“Okay,” he said, “îl vreau. Unde pot cumpara prunele?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Asa de, există o toaletă comună. Este la capătul holului. Prețul de închiriere este o mie de leu. Colectez numai plata în numerar sau cec bancar. A intelege?_  
>  So, there is a shared toilet. It's at the end of the hall. The rental price is one thousand leu. I only collect payment in cash or bank checks. Understand?
> 
>  _Câte luni vrei în avans?_  
>  How many months do you want in advance?
> 
>  _Unul singur. Plătiți în timp ce mergeți. Eu colectez banii în prima zi a fiecărei luni... Mă plătiți acum, locuiți aici astăzi._  
>  Only one. Pay as you go. I collect the money on the first day of each month ... You pay me now, you live here today.
> 
>  _îl vreau. Unde pot cumpara prunele?_  
>  I want it. Where can I buy plums?
> 
> Complaints about the grammar of the Romanian being spoken here should be directed to Google Translate. :D


	3. Context

Jane forced herself to stay calm as she walked slowly through the gardens of Schönbrunn Palace, trying to bury her anxiety in the peaceful reflecting pools, the neatly-manicured lawn, the baroque elegance of the Gloriette pavilion rising up to meet the cloudless blue sky. It was a beautiful day and she felt good enough to walk and to think clearly, so she tried to remind herself that all was not completely lost.

It seemed like it though, like the world was crashing down around her ears. There was work: the research was developing wonderfully and she had a couple new papers almost ready to be published, but Jane had found she wasn't much of a teacher. She liked her students, they were intelligent and hard-working scientists with ambitions of their own, but she often grew frustrated with how little interest they had in the more imaginative, theoretical aspect of astrophysics, and weary of how teaching them felt like time being stolen from her true interests. That dissatisfaction bled into her interactions with her colleagues as well. They were respectful and polite to her face but she was never invited to faculty events, never asked about her own work except in a teasing, oh-look-at-the-crackpot-American kind of way, never consulted with on any administrative decisions like she should have been as head of the department. She felt she had the capacity to lead, but found there was no one willing to follow her.

And there was Thor. Or more accurately, a painful Thor-sized hole in her life where once there had been Thor. He'd disappeared, _again_ , right around the time that the Avengers had showed up in the news, _again_ , with all that madness in Sokovia. 

Ultron, Jane thought, and shuddered. Tony Stark's ego was truly inconceivable. And Thor's ego? She wondered. _Again_ , he'd left with a kiss and a promise that he'd return soon and she hadn't heard from him since. This time she suspected she had lost him for good, although as she shuffled along, kicking at the pebbled path beneath her feet, she wondered if she had ever really had him to begin with. 

Even after all these months, she grappled to think of a reason why he couldn't have at least called her before absconding to Asgard. Erik had told her of Thor's vision, and his suspicions about the infinity stones, but Jane could not reconcile what she knew the empirical facts of the situation to be with the simple emotional truth she felt. Was he thinking about her like this, right now? Had he ever? If he returned to Earth tomorrow and walked back into what had once been their home, would he smile and pull her into his burly arms and brush off all her hurt as though it were petty and beneath him, _again_?

If she screamed at the top of her lungs to Heimdall, right at this moment, demanding that he tell Thor that she was sick and scared and angry, would he come back? Would that be important enough? Would anything? Did she want him to?

Behind every question lay another, and Jane was too tired to keep hoping for answers from him anymore. She was beginning to suspect that Thor had lost her for good, as well.

Then finally, of course, there was her health. The biopsy report had come back with a positive margin; carcinogenesis of the breast tissue. She shuddered. Not a death sentence, she reassured herself, as she climbed the stairs to wander among the columns of the Gloriette. Lots of people got breast cancer, and beat it too. Her mom had.

Mom, she thought, an idea forming. There was still time left before classes began, if she was even in good enough health to teach by September. Her mother had been hinting for a while now that she'd like come visit Vienna and this seemed like the perfect time to invite her here.

Mom, she thought again. If there was anyone in the world who would know what the hell Jane was going to do now, it was Abigail Foster. Jane lowered herself onto a nearby bench, surprised at how winded she was after barely exerting herself. Still, she smiled slightly as she pulled out her phone and dialed her mother's number, watching the swans float gracefully around the nearby pond and feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks.  


*

“Hey Mr. Larson, is now a good time? I got your message...”

“Hi, yeah! Now's fine. Come on in Lewis, take a seat,” Larson gestured to the chair in front of his desk and Darcy sat down, her right foot bouncing nervously.

“Thanks for coming over. You busy today?”

“Nah, today's pretty calm. The Anacostia Community people have a couple of events coming up next week that they want pushed and the Renwick Gallery wants to start posting photos from their weekend crafting workshops so those are on the agenda, but nothing unmanageable.”

“Good, good... well, I won't keep you for long. I just wanted to congratulate you on being with us, God, almost two years I think it'll be, on Friday.” Larson leaned back in his chair, flipping his pen in his hand. “You've really grown into your role here, Lewis. You've just done a phenomenal job.”

“Thank you, Lawson,” Darcy replied, genuinely touched by the compliment.

“Good, yes, emotional moment passed, no hugging please. Next question. Did you, uh... did you want to do a celebration? Office party, maybe order something from Raresweets?”

Darcy laughed at the mention of Larson's favorite bakery, realizing she should have foreseen that he'd turn any event into a reason for dessert. “No big party, boss man, please.”

“Well, we haveta do something!”

“You could bring me a latte on Friday morning?” she offered.

Larson sighed, defeated in his attempt to find an excuse for cake. “Okay, okay. Couple more things. I'm gonna process your vacation request and I'll put in a good word for you with the Powers That Be, but I gotta say... three weeks is a lotta time to ask for. I can't guarantee they'll sign off on that.”

“Too long,” Darcy nodded, “I understand. Is two more realistic?"

“Two, we can do!” Larson replied, making a note on the form in front of him. “Two is definitely doable. Alright, last thing.” He sat up straight in his chair, taking off his glasses and pulling distractedly at the ends of his mustache.

“Darcy, are you happy here?” he asked.

“With the Smithsonian, you mean?” she asked, surprised at the unusually abrupt question from her easy-going boss.

“Yes, with the museum. Doing the social media. In Washington D.C.,” he answered, watching her face.

“Y-yeah. There was a bit of an adjustment period at first I guess, but I'm happy here. I don't know if covering only social media is something I'll want to do forever, but it's taught me so much and...” she trailed off, no longer knowing where this was heading.

“That's what I thought. Well, that's what I'd hoped. There's, uh, I've got an opportunity for you. We have partnerships with a lot of different museums all over the world, every continent but Antarctica, since, as you know... no museums there. Aaand, well... I got a phone call a few days back from the managing director of public relations at the Museum of National History in Birnin Zana. We've collaborated a few times with that crew, they always do great work.

They're interested in doing a sort of... culture exchange. Well, paid employee exchange, more like. Send one of our employees to Wakanda, see what they can learn from how they do things over there, and have one of their employees come here to do the same. They asked if I had anyone I thought was qualified for the project, and... Your name came up.”

Darcy blinked, her surprise building at the turn this conversation had taken.

“What d'ya think?” Larson asked, leaning on his forearms.

“What would I be doing?” Darcy exhaled, her mind rolling around the idea of leaving not just the Smithsonian but America. Just up and move to Africa? What a wild idea. And yet...

“Well, the exchange would be for about six months. You'd be shadowing the head honcho over there, Ms. Ororo Munroe... a very smart lady, by the way. I think you'd probably get thrown into the mix soon enough though, when we talked she mentioned a few projects they're working on where she'd appreciate an American perspective. It might be an interesting chance to learn some more about the PR field. And of course to explore Wakanda, which has just finally started to open its borders to tourists and immigrants in the last couple years. And... well, Lewis, I'd be proud to send you as our sort of... representative.”

Her mind was reeling. This was... this could be interesting. Very, very interesting. Darcy had of course spent time in Norway (cooped up inside an abandoned university, no sunlight, barely counts) and England (mostly trying to pull Jane out of a depressed post-Thor funk, staving off the apocalypse, definitely does not count) but other than that she'd never really been anywhere outside the country, and the thought of going off to live somewhere as different from the U.S. as Wakanda had her involuntarily grinning.

“Thoughts, Lewis?” he prompted.

“When would I leave?”

“Beginning of next year,” he shot back.

“Can I have some time, to think about it?” she stalled.

“Sure, some. They do need to know fairly soon though, so they can start get started on the visa paperwork. It looks like you're taking this wild odyssey of yours...” Larson pulled his glasses back on, scanning the form in front of him, “Early August? Can you let me know before you leave?”

“I can do that,” she answered decisively, nodding as much to Larson as to herself.

  


*

**+40 21 200 3300** : Hi, Darcy. Is this still your phone number? I hope it is.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : This is James.

 **202 867 5309** : james who? sorry don't think i know a james... :-/

 **+40 21 200 3300** : You know me. Bucky.

*

That evening, she sat on her futon eating chicken tikki masala and garlic naan while watching old episodes of The X-Files and contemplating what a badass she would be if she worked for a secret government organization. The chirp of her phone sent her digging through her purse and when she finally discovered it buried under all the Twix Bar wrappers, her pulse started dancing double time at the message displayed on the lock screen.

 _Bucky_. 

He had contacted her. He wasn't gone forever. She sat back on the couch, no longer hearing the TV but lost in her thoughts, remembering his tongue on her neck and his arm slung across her back, grabbing her shoulder from behind to keep her body pulled in close to his, his cock deep inside her as he... whoa. Whoa, Darcy, she thought. We are not still doing this. It was two years ago. You have moved on. You _have_ to have moved on. What would you even say to him, at this point?

But maybe we should still do this though, a small sneaky voice in her mind parried back. It's Bucky. There's never been anyone like Bucky, not before and not after. And he's texting you. So he did keep his word. A little late, but better late than never isn't it? She stared down at the phone, remembering her total devastation when she'd woken up on that horrible day, what felt like a lifetime ago, to find a goodbye note on the bed where she expected there to be a man.

There wasn't just the question of what to say to Bucky after all this time. There was also the question of, could she even handle whatever Bucky had to say to her?

*

**+40 21 200 3300** : Hi, Darcy. Is this still your phone number? I hope it is.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : This is James.

 **202 867 5309** : james who? sorry don't think i know a james... :-/

 **+40 21 200 3300** : You know me. Bucky.

 **202 867 5309** : are you ok? where are you? what's happening?

 **202 867 5309** : i miss you  


*

Her mom was fussing, always a sign that she was working herself up to an argument. Darcy had just delivered the one-two punch of the European getaway she was almost finished planning with Jane and the job opportunity in Wakanda. By the look on her mother's face, she was less than thrilled at these developments.

“Are you even making the kind of money that lets you go cavorting around Europe?” her mom asked accusingly from across the kitchen. She pulled the coffee pot from the machine and brought it to the table, resting it on the table cloth in front of Darcy before retreating for mugs, sugar and milk.

“I've been saving, I have enough. And Mom, I'll be okay. I'll be spending most of my time with Jane, she was my boss in New Mexico and England, remember? And I've done a lot of research. It'll be fine!” she called after her mother's retreating figure.

Elaine returned to the table with her hands full, handing Darcy a tin full of sugar cookies. She set everything else on the table, and placed her hand under Darcy's jaw, tugging firmly until Darcy looked up at her.

“You're going to call your cell provider and buy whatever you have to so that you have service anywhere you go in Europe. Don't give me that look, and don't talk to me about costs. It'll be Harry's and my birthday present to you, if that's what you're worried about. And you're going to get those tracking devices, you know the ones you put in your bag? You'll get one for each bag and one that you'll keep hidden on your person at all times. Harry and I used them on our honeymoon and they were a god-send when his bag got stolen from the hotel.”

“And,” she continued, squeezing her jaw lightly, “You're going to call me every other day. We won't set a designated time because I'm sure you'll be busy, but... you will call me. And we'll discuss Wakanda when you get back.”

“Yes, mother,” she smiled up at her, grateful for how far they'd come in repairing the distance that had grown between them after her dad's death.

Her mother nodded, and sat down next to her. “And Darcy Anne, so help me God if you call me to tell me you've met some mysterious European man who's swept you off your feet and that you're never coming back I _will_ fly over to Europe myself and drag you home by the ear, do you hear me?” Her mother sniffed, shook her head disdainfully, and having spoken her piece on the matter, changed the topic to a story she'd read in the news about some nutjob running around New York calling himself Spiderman.


	4. Hypertext

Jane checked the Arrivals board for the millionth time, scanning the ETA list and flight numbers until she spotted it, second from the top. TK 1887, arriving from Istanbul: ON TIME. Well then. There was nothing to do but wait. She rested her head back against the seat, closing her eyes and listening to the dull roar of family reunions, hissing espresso machines, and rolling suitcase wheels volley around the massive airport. She was exhausted, already, and it was barely even eight am. Her chest was still tender from last month's surgery. She'd warned Darcy she would have a lot of work to do in the five days before they set off to London together and she did... but she also wanted a buffer in case she felt overextended from playing tour guide.

She hadn't told her friend about the cancer yet. She'd wanted to, but they'd both been rocked so hard in the last couple years by first Darcy's dad passing, then losing Erik, and after him Thor, getting them both back, then the Bucky fiasco, and then finally Thor again... she'd just wanted to enjoy her friend's company without delving into the enormous pit of suck that was her life. And she missed it, the way Darcy had looked at her when the younger woman was her intern. Like she was invincible, like she had authority. No one looked at her like that these days.

Her mom had been there, in any case, and had gone above and beyond while taking care of her. She'd arrived days after Jane had called and had moved in until the surgery, then she'd more or less been her caretaker in the weeks that had followed. The surgeons had removed the tumor, and they'd told her it went well, which was to be expected considering her young age and decent physical health. The oncologist had said they still wanted to start chemotherapy in September, though.

Jane scratched at the soft sports bra she was wearing and sighed. Her head was hurting her again today. Everything seemed to hurt, and when she'd asked, her mom had gently informed her it wouldn't get any better during the chemo. They'd made a plan, in those terrible, sleep-filled days of her convalescence. She'd spoken with the deans at the University of Vienna and would be taking sabbatical for the next six months. She was sub-leasing her place in Vienna and she'd move in with her mom in London while undergoing treatment with the same team of oncologists that Abigail had gone to.

Her eyes flitted to the board again and with a start she realized that the words “ON TIME” had switched to “ARRIVED”. Her attention shifted to the sliding doors labeled in bright red with the words “KEIN EINGANG”. They drifted opened and closed to allow luggage-saddled travelers to enter the waiting hall and then pass out through the exit, into Austria. She'd probably need to give Darcy some time to get through customs and then grab her luggage, but Jane's spirits lifted at the thought that any minute now her loyal friend could come walking out those doors.

*

  
**+40 21 200 3300** : Hi, Darcy. Is this still your phone number? I hope it is.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : This is James.

 **202 867 5309** : james who? sorry don't think i know a james... :-/

 **+40 21 200 3300** : You know me. Bucky.

 **202 867 5309** : are you ok? where are you? what's happening?

 **202 867 5309** : i miss you

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I'm OK. I'm in Romania. I'm working with some contacts to gather information about underground HYDRA cells in Europe. I remember it all now. Everything.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I think about you every day.  


*

Steve Rogers dropped his small go-bag on the faded duvet of the hotel room bed and walked to the nearby window, pulling back the gauzy curtain to peer down at the activity of the street below.

“You seriously gonna try to tell me Tony 'genius billionaire playboy philanthropist' Stark couldn't pay for a nicer place to stay than this?” Sam asked, having entered the shabby room behind him and started digging through his own bag, which he'd placed on the bed closer to the door.

“This isn't a holiday, Wilson, and we're not here for the luxurious accommodations,” Steve answered, not taking his eyes from the bank on the corner down below.

“Yeah yeah, Brumlow's definitely planning something big here tomorrow, I get it,” Sam groused, “But for today, how about we go live a little? Enjoy the sights and sounds of Lagos, huh? You ever eat Nigerian food, man? You thought Thai food blew your mind, you're in for a whole new world.”

Steve smiled distractedly, turning back to the bed to pull a Starkpad from his bag. “We need to review the logistics for tomorrow first. Can you grab Natasha and Wanda? They should be in their room; four thirteen,” he directed.

“Hey, you know what goes really great with reviewing logistics? Nigerian food. Suya, Rogers. Spicy barbecued meat. It's gonna change your life!” Sam called as he left the room, turning to the right towards their teammates' room down the hall.

Steve barely heard him. He had connected to the wifi, and although he already knew what the result of refreshing his email inbox would be, the relentless anticipation still clawed away at him. 

It'd been... he looked out through the window, doing the mental math, just about two years since he'd met that girl. Darcy Lewis. She'd known where Bucky was. He'd obtained her information from the leaked SHIELD files, with the help of Natasha. He'd even gone to her place, after calling her for weeks without any response. She'd welcomed him in and told him what had happened the morning after they'd met at the fundraiser. Then she'd gone back to the beginning and told him everything she knew about Bucky. 

He'd liked the girl. She was honest. Smart. A little sassy, like he'd remembered from their first conversation. 

He could see why Bucky would have chosen her as a temporary safe haven, and he could also see the pain that her memories of that punk had caused her. But Steve still felt she'd been straight with him and he'd shaken her hand gratefully, thanking her for the coffee and the hope that her optimism had given him. And if he had the sense she might have been skimming some of the more... personal details of her time with Barnes, he opted in favor of not pushing.

The inbox loaded. Zero new messages. It's what he knew he'd see, and yet... The sinking disappointment was still there, like always. This hope was his albatross, his need to know if Bucky was alive and safe bleeding into every thought he had. If only Bucky had stayed with Darcy, just a few more hours. He sighed.

“Steve, you know what is this... suya? Sam tells me that we must eat the suya now and Natasha also says it is very good. Will you come?” Wanda was peering into the room at him from the hallway, jacket in hand. “They are waiting in the lobby for us. Come, Steve. Tonight we can plan. Always when I was a little girl my grandmother was saying, 'work is not a wolf, it will not go away to the forest'.” 

He pushed aside his musings for the moment, and smiled ruefully at the young woman. She screwed up her face. “Does it make sense in English? I think I am translating correctly.” She leaned against the door jamb, waiting for him.

“Yeah,” he said, rising from the bed and heading towards her, “Except we usually go with 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.'”

“Who is this Jack? Why is he working so much?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him skeptically as he locked the door behind him.

“Come on, I'll explain it to you on the way down,” he laughed.

  


*

The seatbelt light turned off with a ding and the captain's muffled voice came on over the plane's loudspeaker, welcoming the passengers to Austria, informing them they could turn on their electronic devices and that they would begin deplaning in just a few minutes.

Darcy pulled her Starkphone from her pocket, grateful now that her mom had forced her to get the EU roaming package. Her phone chirped with the influx of several messages. One was from the lady herself, demanding Darcy text her the moment the plane landed. She did so immediately, figuring it was in her best interests not to stoke her mother's anxiety on day one of the vacation. 

There were two from Cute Jack, a photo of Larson eating a giant chocolate-chip cookie while sitting dejectedly in the break room and another reading, “work dad is so depressed w/o u here, plz halp”. 

And finally, there was a message from the number she hadn't had the heart to save in her contacts. The Romanian number. After reading it, she felt like her lips had gone numb and her head was swimming. She lowered her head between her knees and tried to think rationally, but all she could hear on an endless loop were the words, 'I think about you every day.'”  


*

**+40 21 200 3300** : Hi, Darcy. Is this still your phone number? I hope it is.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : This is James.

 **202 867 5309** : james who? sorry don't think i know a james... :-/

 **+40 21 200 3300** : You know me. Bucky.

 **202 867 5309** : are you ok? where are you? what's happening?

 **202 867 5309** : i miss you

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I'm OK. I'm in Romania. I'm working with some contacts to gather information about underground HYDRA cells in Europe. I remember it all now. Everything.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I think about you every day.

 **202 867 5309** : bucky... i'm in austria. i'm visiting jane. i want to see you.


	5. Metatext

Jane looked paler and, although she wouldn't have thought it possible, thinner than she remembered. They were sitting in front of Café Central, drinking Einspänner coffees and enjoying the gentle late afternoon breeze. They'd spent the day taking in the strange but delightful Hundertwasserhaus, the glorious Neo-gothic details of the Rathaus, and Darcy's personal favorite spot so far, the breathtaking St. Stephen's Cathedral. It had been a great introduction to Vienna but Darcy couldn't help noticing that Jane had looked more and more drawn as the hours passed, and now her former boss sat sipping her drink silently as they watched the passers-by.

“Janey, how've you been? Talk to me,” she tried, hoping if she gave her friend a little push she might open up about whatever was bothering her. Thor, she thought. His ghosting her like that must have hit her a lot harder than Darcy had realized.

“Good, really, Darce. There... there's always small issues here and there but mostly... I'm okay. Or at least, I'm dealing. I'm taking a sabbatical this Fall,” she spoke thoughtfully, as though she was choosing her words with extreme care. 

Darcy blinked in surprise. "Why?"

"Oh... just a good time for it, I think. I might go back to London, try to do some work there... How about you? You seem... on edge.”

“Ah, well. There is this one thing. It started a few weeks ago but I really wanted to wait so we could talk about it in person. It's not a big deal, but, uh...” she paused, trying to figure out how to tell Jane about the texts.

“Bu-u-u-uuut?” Jane prompted.

“Oh, here. Just look for yourself,” she huffed, pulling out her Starkphone and opening it to the series of messages between her and Bucky.

Jane sat completely still as her eyes scanned the few lines of text on the device in her hand. “What... do you think it's for real?”

“I do. I have no reason not to. He did say in that note that he'd get in touch or whatever. I mean, I guess he coulda mentioned that he was going to take two fucking years to do it, but, you know, bygones, right?” Darcy gritted out, taking a sip of her coffee to try and hide the scowl that appeared whenever she lingered on that thought.

“What're you going to do?”

“I have literally no idea. He still hasn't responded to that last text obviously, although I only just sent it when I landed this morning. He's so slow at texting, I dunno. Like, I keep thinking maybe he takes days to respond so he can craft these masterful little koans, perfectly designed to drive me insane.”

“Will you go meet him?” Jane asked quietly, looking off at a herd of tourists passing the cafe. One man stopped, turned, and took a quick picture of the women and their coffees. Before they could do much more than frown in response he'd turned and run back to rejoin his group without a word of hello, goodbye, or thank you. Jane turned back to Darcy with her eyebrow raised, and rolled her eyes.

“I would,” Darcy confessed, “if he asked me to.”

“Yeah,” Jane answered, “I probably would have too, if Thor had ever asked.”

*

  
**+40 21 200 3300** : Hi, Darcy. Is this still your phone number? I hope it is.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : This is James.

 **202 867 5309** : james who? sorry don't think i know a james... :-/

 **+40 21 200 3300** : You know me. Bucky.

 **202 867 5309** : are you ok? where are you? what's happening?

 **202 867 5309** : i miss you

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I'm OK. I'm in Romania. I'm working with some contacts to gather information about underground HYDRA cells in Europe. I remember it all now. Everything.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I think about you every day.

 **202 867 5309** : bucky... i'm in austria. i'm visiting jane. i want to see you.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I'm in Bucharest.

*

“Well,” Jane started, later that evening, “It's not exactly a no, is it? He's telling you where he is.”

“But, like, it's not exactly an invitation either, you know?” Darcy answered from her prone position on the couch, pushing her glasses up her nose to peer at her crimson-lacquered toes appreciatively.

“Stop that, you'll smudge them!” Jane scolded from the other end of the couch, grabbing her chamomile tea from the side table and taking a sip. She turned back to Darcy, pulled her feet up so she could inspect her work and nodded, deeming it satisfactory, then returned the limbs to their owner.

“Oh hey, I almost forgot!” Darcy jumped up, ignoring Jane's squawk of protest about ruining her art and pulling open her bag to retrieve a periodical, which she tossed onto Jane's cross-legged lap.

“What's this for?” Jane asked, inspecting the two-month old copy of Acta Astronomica.

“It was on the reception desk at the Udvar-Hazy Center when I went to take a few photos of their new Neil Armstrong exhibit. You don't remember? Open to page fifteen.”

Jane did so, and smiled warmly at the title atop the page. “Investigating Deep Space Data and a Deeper Understanding of Wormholes,” she read softly. “By Doctor Jane Foster. I'd forgotten Acta Astronomica had accepted that one. Thanks, Darce,” she said, her eyes dangerously close to tearing up.

“No need to thank me, boss lady; just doing my job as president of your fan club. But you may have to vouch for me later if the receptionists at Udvar-Hazy ever notice its absence and trace the crime back to me. I'm pretty sure they have cameras everywhere, you know? You really have to if you wanna crack down on academic journal theft.”

Jane chortled and shook her head at Darcy, who'd returned to the couch and laid her head in Jane's lap.

“So... Jane. Should I stay or should I go now?” Darcy asked, peering up into her face with faux solemnity.

“Well,” Jane said, stroking her fake beard with equally affected seriousness, “If you go there will be trouble. Then again, if you stay it will be double.”

*

 

 **+40 21 200 3300** : Hi, Darcy. Is this still your phone number? I hope it is.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : This is James.

 **202 867 5309** : james who? sorry don't think i know a james... :-/

 **+40 21 200 3300** : You know me. Bucky.

 **202 867 5309** : are you ok? where are you? what's happening?

 **202 867 5309** : i miss you

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I'm OK. I'm in Romania. I'm working with some contacts to gather information about underground HYDRA cells in Europe. I remember it all now. Everything.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I think about you every day.

 **202 867 5309** : bucky... i'm in austria. i'm visiting jane. i want to see you.

 **+40 21 200 3300** : I'm in Bucharest.

 **202 867 5309** : i'll be at the gara de nord at 10 am tomorrow. i hope i see you there.

*

  


Darcy stepped into the airy, expansive transit station, looking around desperately for a sign in English. She rolled her shoulders, trying to relax the muscles that were hopelessly cramped from a long night of barely sleeping while sitting upright in an unforgiving bus seat. She looked around for some place where she'd have as good a view as possible in every direction. She settled for a nearby fast-food counter, ordering a dish of fried eggs with french fries and their largest cup of coffee. After receiving her food she planted herself in a rickety metal chair, devoured her meal, and then waited.

The last twelve hours were a bit of blur. Jane had been the one to push her in favor of coming here, she reflected. They'd spent the better part of the evening discussing the pros and cons of the impulsive decision she was now making, but Jane had argued that Darcy owed it to herself to get closure, if nothing else. It was when she mentioned her own lack of answers from Thor and Darcy saw the heartache her friend was still carrying that she knew she'd do it. After that, Jane had pulled her on a frenzied race from the apartment to the tram stop and the tram stop to the bus station and then to the ticket window where they'd just managed to buy a ticket for the overnight bus to Bucharest minutes before it departed. 

And now he could be here. Any second she might see him. Breathing the same air as her, again. And me looking so glamorous, she thought, with my hair that still smells like airplane and my blood-shot eyes and my just-slept-on-a-bus-breath. Scanning the vicinity, she propelled herself up off the chair and over to the small station bathroom. Paying the two leu fee, she proceeded to monopolize one of the tiny sinks. After she'd brushed her teeth, washed her face and stuffed her toiletries back into her bag, she peered at herself in the mirror critically. The sight of her reflection made her feel doubtful about the odds of this being a successful reunion and looking into her own eyes she had the random thought, What if he's trying to find you right now?

She grabbed her bag and ran back to the center of the station, spinning in a circle and craning her neck to try and spot him.

Nothing.

After a few more minutes, Darcy gave up and trudged over to a bench, dropping down onto it tiredly and peering up at the large clockface above her head. 10:15.

*

Bucky was marching, his feet landing heavily on the pavement. He wasn't trying to, but he knew it happened sometimes when he was extremely focused or lost in thought. He hadn't realized he was doing it at this precise moment, however, until a young woman in very tall stilettos and a tight dress walking in front of him jumped in alarm, stopped in her tracks, and turned to glare at him. Her eyes flicked down to his heavy boots and up his body with interest as he passed and although he felt her attention linger on him as he continued walking down the street, he kept moving. He had somewhere to be.

The day was far too hot for boots, but James Buchanan Barnes was no longer a sandal kind of guy. He didn't have the luxury of comfortable summerwear; he never knew if someone might recognize him and attack without warning, and he didn't exactly want to be caught unawares while dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and swim trunks. Leave comfort to the innocent people of the world, he thought, living their lives with only the vaguest inkling of how much chaos and horror reigned just outside their perception. 

Finally, he turned the corner and looked up at the gray, pockmarked columns of Bucharest's North Railway Station. She could be in there, he marveled. Waiting for him. He'd asked her not to when he left and at the time he honestly hadn't wanted her to, hoping she would move on with her life and remember him fondly with rose-colored glasses. He'd been so grateful to Darcy, for the week that they'd spent together. Without asking, without even really knowing him at all, she'd seemed to know just how much space and nearness he'd needed and their time together had set him on the road he needed to take so that he could reclaim his life.

But now. She was here... maybe. Bucky took out his phone, read her last text message one last time, and checked the time. 10:45. Shit.

Was he too late?

*

She hadn't noticed him approach. She had been sitting on the bench, bag on her lap, continually scanning the station for his broad shoulders, the intensity of his forward-leaning gait, his deep-set, melancholic eyes. Still nothing. She peered down at her phone for maybe a half a minute, and then she felt the eerie sensation of being watched. She looked up, and there was Bucky, looking more composed, more settled than the last time she'd seen him. The same Bucky, but different somehow.

He was standing so close that she was making eye contact with the fly of his jeans and could have reached out and touched him if she wanted, so after a split second of consideration, she did. As she tugged lightly on the hem of his dark jacket, his hand landed on her wrist, and suddenly she was being pulled up and into his body. Her bag fell, forgotten, to their feet. His arms smoothed over her waist and down to her lower back and from this angle, she could see that his once haggard face had filled out slightly, his skin a much healthier, tanner color than the last time they'd been this close. For a single moment longer she stood stiffly in his arms, just taking him in. His eyes were riveted to her face like he was looking for something, and then, seemingly finding it, his lips sank down to meet hers. 

Later, she knew, there would have to be recrimination. There would have to be argument. There would have to be lectures on texting etiquette. He was not off the hook by a long shot. But at the feel of his tongue brushing over her lips, begging entrance and taking it when she opened her mouth to him, Darcy slid her arms up his biceps, her right hand registering the texture of the metal plates shifting under his clothing as he pulled her impossibly closer. All of that could wait. For now, she would let herself have this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to drag out this meeting for, like, another three chapters. And then I was like, hey self, you know what? Just make these beautiful idiots kiss already.


	6. Bold Text

They walked slowly, her right hand in his gloved left, through the winding, cobblestone streets of Bucharest's Old Town. As they meandered she told him about her job, how ready she was to do more with herself, and about her family, her mother, about how hard they'd worked to become closer in the past year. Her duffel bag was slung over his right shoulder, and he was listening intently to an old story about her dad when the smell of something buttery, sugary and irresistible wafted through the air towards them. Noticing her deep inhale, he grinned. He tugged on her hand and they drifted towards a small, hole-in-the-wall bakery across the street. As soon as they stepped inside they were immersed in the smell and Darcy moaned happily.

“Două gogoși, caisă,” Bucky said to the large man standing behind the counter, and when she reached into her pocket for cash he shook his head at her. He handed her what looked like a jelly donut and taking a bite of his own, he paid, grabbed her hand again and led her back out onto the street.

“What are we eating?” Darcy asked.

“Romanian donuts, gogoși,” he answered between bites, “These are filled with apricot.”

“Romanian donuts taste like American donuts,” she muttered, before finishing it in one final, giant bite and licking her fingers.

He nodded, smiling. “Or maybe it's vice-versa?” he asked.

There seemed to be no particular destination that Bucky had in mind so they strolled quietly for a few more minutes until they reached a small canal. Darcy spotted a park bench a few yards away and tugged him to it, sitting and pulling him down next to her, her hand still firmly in his.

“Bucky...” she began.

“I shoulda called you,” he interrupted, eyes on the water in front of them. “I kept thinking I was going to, but that I just needed to finish this next operation, smoke out these last HYDRA agents. This is the last time, I said. I kept sayin' it, every time. But I don't think it'll ever be over, Darcy. You can't kill HYDRA, not completely. That's the whole point of 'em...

I started out in New York, after, uh, I left you. I walked up and down every street of Brooklyn until I found a neighborhood that looked familiar. So I rented a room there. I got a job working nights in this warehouse near the docks. Unloading trucks, mostly. It was boring, but it paid in cash and nobody looked twice at me and... boring was okay. I needed boring. I ran in the mornings, in this park near my place. Highland park. Sometimes along the water, or over the bridge into Manhattan. For the first month I worried constantly about being made, but...”

“But?” Darcy prompted, pulling her legs up and under her and shifting her body to face him. She ran her right hand along the back of the bench, up and over his back, playing with the stray locks of his dark hair that brushed along his shoulders.

“No one ever recognized me. Not like you did in the museum that day. I was careful, of course, spent my time in places other people didn't. I'd forgotten how easy it is to disappear in New York. I, uh...” He paused again. This time Darcy said nothing, patiently waiting for him to find the words.

“I found a counselor. Only went two times, didn't tell her much about myself, just that I was a soldier with some shell-shock. Except it's, uh, what d'ya call it now? PTSD. That. She told me to start writing my dreams down so I did. That's when the memories really started comin' back. Brooklyn. Stevie. People I'd killed. My folks. My first girlfriend, Dolores, when I was thirteen. How to strip a Springfield M19 in under a minute. Siberia. All of it, Darce. That batty shrink had it right, I just needed to take control of my mind back.”

“I'm happy for you,” she murmured glumly. He turned to her, drawing his right hand up to cup her cheek. His left landed on her thighs and he pulled her closer, until her legs rested on top of his and she leaned into his body. “And then?” she asked.

“I came to Europe. Had a hell of time managing it, paid a small fortune to a private pilot to smuggle me into Morocco then stowed away on a ferry to Spain. Made my way east, gathering whatever information I could. Eventually I hooked up with some people in Ukraine. We had the same endgame, eliminating still-active HYDRA cells, so... I stuck around a while. You ever heard of Colonel Nick Fury?”

“Scary, eye-patch-wearing director of SHIELD who you supposedly killed on the streets of D.C.? Uh, yeah Bucky... I've heard of him,” she teased gently.

He shrugged, then smiled sardonically. “Turns out, I didn't kill him. Although he's just fine with everyone thinking that I did while he cleans house. We worked together for a while in Kiev. Buried the hatchet, you could say.”

“How'd you end up here?” she prodded.

“Our team pulled some files from a HYDRA bunker in Lviv, there was a tip about a cluster of facilities in southern Romania. I volunteered to go. Once I finished there I made contact with a group in Bucharest who were doing the same kind of work, bustin' up HYDRA, they said they could use another man so I stayed. Besides, Ukrainian food is somethin' awful,” he joked.

“No gogoși there?”

“Not like they make 'em here,” he chuckled, then continued hesitantly, “Darcy... I'm sorry. I mean it. I played it wrong, I know that now. I thought I was doin' right by you. Thought I was doin' better, that I was saner, than I was. By the time I came to my senses I was just... so much time had passed. It took me a long time to man up enough to reach out to you, I know that. And... Can you forgive me?”

“Can I really begrudge you a two-year journey of self discovery, redemption, and revenge against your former captors, dude? What choice do I have?”

“You can choose to be angry anyway, if that's what you want. You can choose to be anything you want, just like you let me be,” he said. “I would understand if you were.”

“You know, it's not the radio silence, if we're being honest, Bucky,” she spit out, turning her face to watch a young couple scratching their names into the railing of the nearby pedestrian bridge. He said nothing, just watched her warily. “It's the way you left it. You could have told me you needed to go. I woulda been mad, yeah, of course. I woulda wanted you stay, obviously. But I woulda gotten it, if you'd told me you needed to remember who you were and fight back against those sick bastards. Hell, I might've tried to go with you!” She was on the verge of shouting now, and remembering herself, looked around guiltily to see if anyone close to them had heard. There was no one nearby, so she turned back to him.

“I know,” he sighed, “I just thought... what we had was so good. It's crazy, it was just a week, wasn't it? But it, ah hell, I don't know.” He seemed to get frustrated with himself now. “I needed rest, and peace, and someone to care about me and touch me and make me feel like a goddamn man instead of a caged animal. That's what you gave me. But I couldn't live in your apartment, hiding from all the truth of what I'd done forever, could I? I wanted to leave it on a good note. I felt like you gave me so much, I thought I was sparin' you some hurt.”

She scoffed. He turned to look at her. 

“Doll.”

“Darcy, look at me.”

She did, after a minute of willfully refusing to meet his eyes.

“I can't be your boyfriend, Darcy. I doubt I'll ever be that, or anything, for anyone. There are...” He inhaled deeply, looking around them and then leaning in towards her, speaking quietly, “There are some words. A trigger... like a code, you could say. HYDRA programmed it into my mind. They did it so I can't even remember them, can't ever tell 'em to anyone or get 'em out. But when they're spoken to me, I... I lose control. I don't remember the words but I remember from my dreams that they used'ta speak 'em to me and then my mind, it'd just go blank. Ready to comply. I remember that, saying that, and then I remember killing. A lot. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

“That they're not just assholes, but in fact super assholes?” she snarked, trying to hide her unease with a joke.

“It means I can't be trusted,” he muttered.

“Can I trust you right now? You're not gonna kill me, are you?” she asked dubiously, hand tugging lightly at the ends of his hair.

He pushed her glasses up her nose for her and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “That'll never happen doll, because you're not going to stick around to let it happen.”

She whimpered, closing her eyes and tucking her face into his shoulder in an attempt to hide from the feeling of powerlessness that plagued her. She considered their options. She could acknowledge he had a point. As long as he was capable of being controlled, he wasn't necessarily safe to be around. But she didn't want to lose him completely, didn't think she could go the rest of her life without hearing his voice.

When she finally lifted her face, her cheeks were wet and she sniffled resignedly. “Alright, I'll go, if that's what needs to happen. But don't send me away right now. I'll leave tomorrow. Where are you living? Take me there, I'm tired and I want to lay down.”

“Sweetheart...” 

“Just one night, Bucky. It's been two years. I missed you and I worried about you and of course I went on living my life, but, well... I thought about _you_ every day, too. Let's just have this night for ourselves, and tomorrow I'll get on a bus and I'll go. But you don't have to hide from me when I leave, okay? You can call me, or... or text. Just don't... Don't leave my life completely.” She wiped her cheeks with her hands and winced at how pathetic she sounded to her own ears, like she was begging him for scraps.

He sighed softly, at her acceptance and her offer of friendship, and nodded. He lowered her legs to the ground and stood, taking her hand again to pull her up. He grabbed her bag and flung it once more over his shoulder, and spoke lowly in her ear as she leaned into him for a proper hug, “Fair warning, Darce, my place is... It's a dump.” He looked down at her apologetically.

“Um, have you forgotten my place in D.C., Bucky? C'mon. I'm a big girl, I can manage a little roughing it.”

“Alright doll, you asked for it,” he joked as she pulled back, taking her hand again and leading her away in the direction of home.

*

Natasha glanced around at the paramedics and the dazed, injured crowd. That siren she'd just heard, it had come from the ambulance over there. And she would have bet every gun in her Quinjet arsenal that the one she'd heard on Steve's end of their phone call had been identical. Which meant...

She looked down at her ash-covered blazer and skirt. Ruined. 

Trouble. That's what it meant.

Okay, Romanoff, play this out, she reasoned to herself. Let's look at the angles. T'Challa was heading for the Winter Soldier. His plan was simple: revenge. No playing softball, she chided herself. Fine, then. His plan was simple: Barnes had to die. But would he be able to find him? Possibly. The man was the king of a Vibranium-rich country; his resources were most likely nearing on unlimited. And she found herself feeling safe in the assumption that his will was fairly unflinching. He seemed like a man who did not mince words, or set himself to a task he could not accomplish.

And Steve? She wondered. Was he really here in Vienna? Could he obtain Barnes' location? He'd been looking for the man for years now, an endeavor which Natasha had assisted him in from time to time. He'd never had any success. What were the odds things would change now? She looked around at the uniformed law officers taking statements on the lawn before her. Bundespolizei, of course. Interpol, to be expected. Joint Terrorism Task Force, sure. CIA. That was interesting. There were Americans inside the building, though. So they had a right to be here as well, she rationalized.

The thought struck her like a stray bullet. Steve knew someone at the CIA. Someone he quite liked, and who liked him too. Agent 13... Sharon Carter. Natasha herself had been the one to push him in Carter's direction, believing (perhaps naively, she now acknowledged) that Steve's self-flagellating work ethic could be softened if he had a little romance in his life. Would Agent 13 pass on to Steve any information she had? Would she have anything? Natasha turned, peering up at the still smoking Vienna International Center. Every law enforcement agency in Europe would want their hands on Barnes, and fast. The tips would be pouring in, they always did in big cases like this, and they'd be putting a lot of manpower into combing through every possible lead.

Natasha could see a world in which one of those tips turned out to be solid, and that information made its way to the CIA. She also thought it was very likely that Carter would share whatever she had on Barnes with Steve, because of the connection they had. Because Sharon had spent months observing Steve and she was only human; sometimes you slip up and start to think your mark is your friend. So let's assume, she speculated, that Steve knows where Barnes is. Let's assume further that he's headed there.

And Barnes? She considered him for a longer time, watching the firefighters sift through the wreckage up above her. The Winter Soldier. How much could he be expected to remember? Would he be able to evade all the law enforcement agencies dropping down on his head, once they'd been tipped off? Would he try something stupid, like fighting them off? Or running? Was all this destruction really his work? Was he even in Europe? If he'd figured out a way to get from D.C. to Vienna without showing up on anyone's radar, how could he have made such a stupid mistake like not checking for security cameras while committing an act of terrorism? Either Barnes knew what he was doing or he didn't; how could the man be capable of one feat and stupid enough to botch the other? Barnes, Natasha thought. Barnes is the question mark here, and each unanswerable question about him just led to another. He was throwing off her ability to extrapolate.

She needed to get in touch with Tony. She'd thought this situation was precarious before, but her instincts were screaming at her that she hadn't seen anything yet.

*

He was biting her neck. Not painfully, not enough to draw blood, just enough to keep her bent over his kitchen island pliantly as he thrust into her from behind. He was fucking her roughly, like a desperate man, like he was starving for it. Like he hadn't had this in a long time. She groaned, pushing her ass back towards his hips just as he snapped them particularly hard, and their fingers laced together on the counter in front of her.

Darcy still hadn't been sure, when she'd walked through the reinforced door of his apartment, which he'd dead-bolted behind her, if they would end up here. She'd been pondering how far they should take this as she did a small circuit of his apartment, noting the newspaper-plastered windows, the packages of cookies above the fridge, the sad, unmade mattress lying on the floor in lieu of a proper bed.

Okay, so this was a bit dingier than her D.C. pad. She'd walked to the other door in the apartment, turned to look at him in question and when he'd nodded silently, flung it open to walk out onto the small balcony. He hadn't followed her and after a minute of blinking at the change in light and then surveying the rooftops below, she'd turned and wandered back inside, closing the door behind her.

“Got a real Howard Hughes thing going on here, don't you Buck?” she'd joked, trying to keep things light.

“The genius Hollywood producer and ground-breaking aviator?” he'd asked in confusion, at which Darcy had winced. Oh, right.

“Uh, yeah... things sorta went downhill for him after the fifties. He became kind of a, um, hermit by the end of his life,” Darcy'd squirmed. “Sorry, never mind. Stupid joke. But... what's with the newspapers?”

“Didn't know where to buy curtains,” he'd confessed, leaning restlessly on the drab, olive loveseat situated by the kitchen island. “Needed the privacy. Newspaper's cheap, anyway.”

She'd turned, leaned against the sink in his kitchen counter, and they'd regarded each other nervously. A hush had fallen over the apartment, like a spell Darcy could not bring herself to break. She'd smiled shyly, gesturing at him to come hither with her hand. He had let out a breath she had not realized he was holding and crossed the room to her, sinking his body into hers. His arms had encircled her waist and she'd felt the counter dig into her spine. Her hands had risen to his broad back almost of their own volition and pulled him in closer, stroking at the muscles there and then reaching up into his hair to massage his scalp. She'd pulled off his hat and hurled it somewhere into the apartment.

“Hi,” he'd breathed, nuzzling into her clavicle.

“Howdy,” she'd replied, “Did I mention yet that I really missed you? I feel like I know you, Bucky, like I've always known you, all my life. It's the craziest thing.” She tucked into her head into his shoulder as she made her confession, not wanting to see his face in case the emotion there did not match her own.

“I know the feeling, sweetheart,” he had responded quietly, pulling the neckline of her t-shirt aside and laying a soft, sweet kiss on the tender skin between her neck and her shoulder. “I'm not going to disappear this time, Darcy. I can't promise you anything, can't promise you we'll ever be together, but if you'll let me... I want you in my life. I need you in my life. Even just as...”

“Pen pals?” she'd teased, gasping when his tongue met the skin behind her ear.

He had pulled his head back at the same time that he worked her legs open with his, then he'd lifted her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs and pulling her close, grinding his very hard dick directly against her cunt. Her eyes had fluttered closed and she'd inhaled once, twice, trying to stay calm. “You know,” she'd gasped, breath hitching as his hips had repeated the motion a third time, “I'm not usually one for international booty calls. But for you, Bucky Barnes, I'm gonna make an exception.”

“I appreciate that sweetheart, I really do.”

*

Later, as she lay naked atop him on the tiny mattress, both of their breathing slowly returning to normal, she pulled herself up to rest on her elbows and scrutinize his face. He was looking up at her, and at her inspection he smiled hopefully. She couldn't stop the wide, goofy grin from breaking out and she leaned in to kiss him again, a kiss which he returned enthusiastically.

She pushed herself up off of him and flounced over to his cabinets, grabbing a glass and filling it with water from his sink. He observed her actions but said nothing, and to Darcy it felt like he was studying her naked body, like he was memorizing her. She looked around, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze and unable to meet it. Her eyes landed on the leather-bound notebook on his fridge, grabbing it and flicking at the little sticky tabs peeking out from several pages.

“Can I?” she asked.

He shrugged, slightly, muttering, “Mai bine puțin cu dreptate decât mult cu strâmbǎtate.”

“Bucky.”

“What's mine is your's, Darcy,” he rejoined, still not answering her question, and now staring at his hands guardedly.

She sighed, and moved to place the journal in its original location, when he choked out, “You can read it.” When she turned back to him, he looked panicked, so she grabbed it once more and returned to the bed, dropping it on the floor beside them and pushing him over so should could lay partially on top of him as she planted kisses along the scarred skin of his left pectoral. 

“I don't need to read it, Bucky, and I won't if you don't want me to,” she whispered, settling her head on his chest and listening to his heart race.

He ran his flesh and bone fingers through her dark curls and cleared his throat. “No, you should. I want you to.”

She picked it up from where she'd dropped it on the floor, and opened to a creased picture of Captain America pushed between pages.

“I bought it from the museum gift shop,” he explained. “With some change from the money you gave me, that day I brought you Chinese food.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that. You were gone a long time that day.”

“I ran when I saw you lookin' at me in the museum that first time, but I hadn't really finished reading everything and...” he trailed off.

“I get it,” she said calmly. “Okay let's see. August 27th, 2014.” She stopped, mentally calculating the timeline of events during the last two years. “You were in... Brooklyn?”

“Yeah,” he answered softly, still running his hands through her hair to soothe her, or maybe himself.

“Okay, August 27th. Rebecca, again. Playing piano. She has lessons on Tuesday. Family apartment, rough textile on a dark blue chesterfield. Green carpets. Stuffy in the late afternoon, when the sun hits it. A yellow-eyed tabby cat sitting on the fire escape.”

She flipped forward several pages, “November 14th. Blood. On my hands, in my hair, inside my ears. A bundle of ruined clothes burning in a metal trash can. Viscera caught between the plates of my metal arm, standing in an ice-cold shower until the water finally runs clear."

"Oh, Bucky...” She shuddered and peered up at him, saw his furrowed brow and anxious eyes, and lay another gentle kiss on his chest.

“June 13th, 2015. Darcy, again...” she paused, blushing as she read on silently.

“Go on... please,” he rasped.

“Alright. Uh, Darcy, again... her perfect breast in my hand. The feel of her twotch, soft and tight, pulling me in deeper. The herbal smell of her shampoo, the feel of her hair on my face. Woke up... with a st-stand-on,” she stuttered on the last word, then pushed on, skipping forward a few more pages.

“February 2nd, 2016. Steve dream, fourteenth night in a row. He is so small, and frail, not like in D.C. Riding somewhere on the back of a freezer truck. Hot dogs on a sunny day. The pier at Coney Island, the smell of french fries and the sea. Two girls, in bikinis, laughing and smiling. Carnival games. One of the girls has Darcy's face, Darcy's laugh, but that can't be right...” she trailed off.

“Read the next night,” he directed, running his metal hand down her back while he leaned up to kiss her forehead, as if to soften the command.

“Um, okay. Next night, February 3rd... Darcy, in my bed. Here in Bucharest, but that can't have happened. Her hand on me, my mouth on her, the taste of her on my tongue. Taking her to see the Arcul de Triumf, buying her ice cream. Sitting on my lap, taking it from me, so pretty. Her ass in my hands. Kissing me, her soft lips. Nicely at first, like the school girls at St. Francis Cabrini used to, then dirty. Tongue on tongue. Pushing her onto her knees, those perfect lips around my roger... Bucky, I like, I can't read any more of this. I'm basically reading smut here. I'm flattered but.... but I'm actually gonna die from lust if I keep reading this to you,” she shut the book with a snap, tossing it aside and climbing on top of him.

He chuckled, his hands coming to rest on her hips. One hand ran along her skin to explore her cunt; she was drenched, already so wet for him, so warm and soft. He sat up to chase after her as she leaned back, hands gripping the muscled thighs behind her as he gently stroked her. He pushed her onto her back and sank down on his knees, laying his tongue flat on the lips of her cunt without preamble. He lapped at her, rolling her clit in his metal fingers and fucking her with two fingers of his other hand until she came, keening his name and gripping his head with her thighs, enthralled by the sight of his mouth on her as he stared up into her eyes.

He pulled her limp body up and onto his lap again, his hands gripping her hips as he laid back and rested his head on the pillow. She scooted her self up and ran her hands along his arms, coming to rest them on top of his as they worked together to align their bodies and sink her onto his cock. For a moment they stayed motionless, Darcy leaning back on Bucky's bent legs as he let her reacquaint herself with the solid, full feeling of his dick deep inside of her. Finally, she reached out to grip his shoulders, and he pulled her down to kiss her deeply. Then they moved wordlessly, breathlessly together.

Why was it always like this, so intense, with him? It was like a nuclear detonation of lust and emotion every time he laid his hands on her, and looking down at his frenzied face, his gritted teeth as he thrust up into her, hot and hard and exactly right every time, her stomach muscles began shaking with exertion and anticipation. She was sweating, she was completely exposed to him, but she felt no insecurity, just the warm glow of satisfaction. She felt safe.

Darcy knew in that moment, in the silent secret recesses of her heart, that this man who she barely knew and who she also felt like she knew better than anyone else, had ruined her for all other men. The knowledge twisted her up inside and when she felt his thumb gently strum her clit while he thrust at just the right angle, she came with a howl, then collapsed onto his chest to mouth at his shoulder as he fucked her through the last twitches of her orgasm. She bit him, lightly, to keep herself from confessing her secret; his unyielding grip securing her chest to his as he thrust up into her without grace or rhythm. At last, he moved one hand to tug on her hair and pull her face to his so that he could kiss her sloppily as he came so hard she could feel the heat of it inside her.

Again, their bodies relaxed and after a minute she climbed off and onto the bed beside him. There wasn't enough room to lay fully on her back so she rested on her side, curling her body over his.

After a long, reflective silence he asked, “Do you think... are you scared of me? Of what you read in that book?”

“Would we have just done that if I was? No, Bucky,” she rushed to answer. “I'm not. I knew all of that already; I came into this with my eyes wide open. The only thing that scares me is the thought of you disappearing again.”

He nodded, exhaled in relief, and rolled her over, tugging her back into his heated body and tangling his legs between hers. He kissed her gently at the nape of her neck, then reached down to pet her thigh, where his leaking come was smeared. She smirked back at him, then rested her arm on top of his; as the adrenaline rush of the past day finally wore off, she closed her eyes and began to doze peacefully. 

The apartment dimmed around them while Bucky lay listening to her breathing as she fell into a quiet sleep, rubbing his thumb gently back and forth across the soft skin of her belly and ribs. He didn't deserve this, not any of it, not really, he thought to himself. But she was offering it to him anyway, and he didn't have the moral fiber to stay away from her forever. You can have this, just for tonight, he promised himself. Tomorrow he'd put her on a bus and send her back to Jane Foster. He'd keep her safe, keep her away. He'd settle for friendship at a distance. Tomorrow, he thought again, as he pulled her body closer and sank his face into her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Mai bine puțin cu dreptate decât mult cu strâmbǎtate._ "  
> Honesty is the best policy.
> 
> These are some fun websites: http://timeglider.com/timeline/194b572e19fd461b and http://timeglider.com/timeline/07f47d6b843da763. Very educational, very entertaining.


	7. Strike-Through Text

_“A bomb hidden in a news van has ripped through the UN in Vienna. More than seventy people have been injured. At least twelve are dead, including Wakanda's king, T'Chaka. Officials have released a video of a suspect who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes... the Winter Soldier. The infamous HYDRA agent linked to numerous acts of terrorism and political assassinations. Anyone with information is asked to please contact authorities at...”_

Jane lowered the bottle of grapefruit juice from where she'd been holding it, suspended in front of her face, as the shock of the news report rocked through her. The UN building? She'd just passed by there last week on her way to meet a colleague for coffee. She glanced around the airport gate to see if anyone else was watching the flat-screen TV, and found that the majority of her fellow passengers were. She returned her gaze to the news, where additional footage of the still-underway evacuation process was being played and the crisp, professional voice of the BBC news anchor was reading off a list of names of those still reported missing.

There's going to be bedlam in the city, she thought. It's probably for the best that I won't be there for a while. Racking her brain for how to help, she settled upon pulling out her Starkphone and texting a donation to the Red Cross Services. It wasn't much, but really, what else could she do in this situation? It wasn't like she could leave the Vienna International Airport and return to the city to help pull people from the debris. 

Darcy. Her stomach clenched with anxiety and Jane flinched. She was with Barnes, presumably. Jane needed to get this information to her, immediately, if she hadn't already seen it. She pulled up the BBC website on her phone, copying a link of the latest report with the footage of Barnes and sending it to her friend in a text. But how could...? It couldn't have been the Winter Soldier, she mentally protested. She did a quick internet search. Driving time between Vienna and Bucharest... around eleven hours. There was no way Barnes was flying, not on a commercial airliner that required him to pass through any airport's metal detector. She sent another text, demanding that Darcy call her as soon as she could. Had he met Darcy at the train station yesterday morning, as her friend had hoped he would? If he had, then there was an alibi. He was innocent. If he hadn't...

Her friend was going to be in for another round of heartbreak, she realized. Great. As if the pair of them hadn't suffered enough at the hands of men this year.

*

They were drinking coffee at a small sidewalk cafe, hands held in what Darcy imagined was probably a sickening display of public affection for anyone watching them, and talking quietly. In the morning they'd conferred and found that they'd both slept peacefully through the night, the comfort of the other's bare skin and warmth lulling them to into a deep rest they'd both needed. 

She'd woken to the feeling of her breast being pressed tightly into her chest, his hard dick poking her in the thigh as he shifted against her. They'd made love languidly at first, savoring each other in an unspoken agreement that this would be the last time in a while that they'd have this together, and then frantically a second time, still not quite ready to give up the feeling of their bodies moving together. She'd thought it was over then but when she'd stepped into the shower of the tiny bathroom down the hall from his apartment she'd heard the door open and close, then a lock turn, and a minute later the door of the tiny stall had opened and he'd crowded in against her, pulling off his soaking clothes and fucking her sweetly, then savagely, against the slippery shower wall. The whole morning had been heartbreaking and beautiful and so hot that by the time she'd come for a third time, pressing open-mouthed kisses into his wet shoulder, she'd wondered if she'd ever be able to gather her senses together again.

But they were calm now, the frenzy having passed. There was a shared contentedness between them and they sat relaxed in their chairs, both of them basking in this moment before their inevitable parting. She looked up from her mug, where she'd been stirring her cappuccino and enjoying the dull ache of their marathon fucking, to find him watching her tenderly. She leaned over and pulled him into a gentle kiss that deepened into something that was probably wildly inappropriate, but she didn't, couldn't, care who was watching, taking this moment because he was here with her and because she could. He returned the kiss with fervor.

He'd smiled then, and stroking her cheek with his gloved left hand, asked, “Hey, you ever had Romanian plums?”

“Is that a euphemism for something?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows at him.

“No, just an innocent question about your fresh fruit preferences,” he laughed, leaning over to kiss the top of her head as he rose from his chair. “Stay here. I'm gonna get us a snack, I'll be right back.”

She beamed at him, took a sip of her coffee then watched his ass as he stepped to the curb, looked both ways, and crossed the street in the direction of a small produce vendor's stall. She watched him haggle for a moment, then looked around, breathing the crisp morning air and enjoying the feeling of being here with him. She remembered her phone, tucked in her bag. She hadn't looked at it since she'd laid eyes on Bucky yesterday morning. She pulled it out now, and read Jane's text messages. She opened the link, watched the clip from the BBC newscast.

_Shit._

Her mind raced, breathing suddenly seemed unthinkably difficult and the tears were coming before she could even begin to wrangle her emotions. Double shit. He was in really serious trouble now. And she probably was too. She watched him again, saw something catch his attention at the news stand a few yards from where she was still sitting, frozen. He crossed the street, focused on a man who ran out from the stall, a look of terror on his face. She watched the man rush past her and down the sidewalk in the other direction, and when she turned back towards Bucky, he was marching towards her determinedly. Reaching the table, he threw ten leu down then grabbed her bag in one hand, elbow in the other, pulling her up and out of her chair while barely breaking stride. 

“C'mon, time to go sweetheart,” he ground out, dragging her along until she got her wits about her and with a small skip forward to catch up, fell into step with him.

“Bucky? I just got a text from Jane, what the fuck is going on? How could you have been in Vienna planting a bomb when you've been here with me?”

He looked at her expectantly, even as he continued marching them in the direction of the nearby train station. She reflected for a moment then moaned, “Oh, God. Oh no. Oh holy shit Bucky, this is not fucking fair. Let me help you! What are we gonna do?”

He answered, “ _You're_ gonna get on a bus and go back to Vienna, or London, or wherever you're supposed to meet Jane. You're not going to stay in Bucharest and you're not going to try to help me. You're going to do this for me so that I can keep my head straight, because I'm guessing I'm about to be in a world of shit. And I can't afford to even consider the possibility that you might get hurt. Are we clear, Darcy?”

She pulled her arm from his, stopped on the sidewalk and planted herself with her feet spread wide. “Wait, wait, really? I'm just gonna walk away, and... and then what? What's going to happen, Bucky?” she demanded frantically, her panic rising so quickly she couldn't seem to pull in enough oxygen.

He'd stopped and turned to look at her face when she had stopped, and now he reached for her, breathing in her ear, “I don't know, sweetheart. Nothing good, I don't think. I can't handle whatever's coming while you're here, though. I can't think about nothin' else when you're around, and right now I gotta be smart. I need you go be somewhere safe so I can think sharp, Darcy, please?” His speaking got faster, lower, more frantic as he kept talking, until they were on the edge of causing a scene, clutching each other desperately in the middle of the sidewalk outside the Gara de Nord.

“Okay,” she wheezed. “Okay. I'll go. Jesus, Bucky, if anything happens to you...”

“You gotta trust me. I've planned for this, I'm ready to run, but I can't run if you're with me. Do you understand? Darcy? Trust that I can take care of myself,” he answered, not knowing if he fully believed in that himself but needing her to believe it.

“Yeah, okay. Alright... Okay. Okay. K-kiss me, right now. And not like a goodbye forever kiss, don't you dare do that to me. Kiss me like you'll see me again. I want it to feel like this is just a pause, okay? Not a full stop,” she rambled, shaking her head and looking up at his worried face.

He pulled her into him and kissed her aggressively, opening her up to him and plundering her mouth, pouring every ounce of emotion into it; every dream haunted by her, every pang of longing he'd felt in the long years since he'd last held her, every stray wish of a future with her he'd held close to his chest since the day he'd snuck out of her apartment. It was a scorched earth kiss, a kiss that left no room for the outside world raging around them, and when they pulled apart they were both shaking, panting.

She frowned. “That felt like goodbye forever,” she objected, sniffling back a sob.

“Not goodbye forever,” he whispered, leaning down and gripping the back of her head gently to pull her forehead to his, “that was a promise.”

She sobbed for real then, unable to hold it back, and wrapped her arms around him. “You'd better keep it,” she keened into his chest, kissing him above his heart.

*

Jane felt the unnerving tickle of deja vu at the back of her mind as she watched Darcy stumble out of the arrival gate's sliding doors at Gatwick airport. She assessed her friend as she approached, noting Darcy's wild, untamed sex hair and red-rimmed eyes. Oh yes, this was bad, Jane thought. This was definitely going to get ugly.

Darcy collapsed into her arms, not even bothering with a hello before she began crying. They stood like that, holding each other up as Darcy let all her fear and sadness surge up and rush out in a torrent while in the safety of her friend's embrace. Jane began to cry as well, unable to resist the feeling of overwhelming helplessness. For several long minutes neither said anything, simply crying, then Jane pulled back to look Darcy in the eyes.

“Here,” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small plastic flask of Luksosowa which she handed to Darcy, and with another venture into her purse, handing over a can of PBR to join it. “This should help.”

Darcy laughed wetly, and Jane dug once more in her purse for a tissue, which she handed to Darcy after the younger woman had opened the bottle of cheap vodka and taken a deep swig.

“Ready to go?” Jane asked.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” Darcy answered, wincing as the vodka burned its way down to her stomach.

“Good, because my mom is so excited to see you. She's made your favorite, shepherd's pie. We're going to eat all of it and then, probably, a lot of ice cream too while we watch the news and figure out what's going to happen next. Okay?”

“Okay," Darcy answered, then added, "I... I think we need to stop by a pharmacy and pick up the morning-after pill, also." She couldn't meet Jane's eyes when she said it.

“Added to the list," Jane said gently, rubbing Darcy's arm then taking her hand.

“Thanks, Jane,” Darcy said, hiccuping from the intensity of her crying jaunt and the large shot of vodka.

“Of course,” Jane answered, pulling Darcy in the direction of the exit, “What are friends for?”


	8. Subtext

The next few days flew by. They barely left Jane's mother's apartment; all thoughts of vacationing were set aside. Darcy called her mother once they were settled in, apologizing profusely for missing a day and fabricating all sorts of plausible-sounding stories about what she and Jane had been up to in Vienna and London. Jane's mother cooked every comfort food she could think of, and the three of them stayed glued to the television as the polished, clipped tones of the BBC news anchors informed them that Bucky had been arrested along with Steve and T'Challa.

Then the reports came that everyone involved had either escaped or fled, and the women spoke in quiet, hopeful tones about where they could be headed.

Finally, two days later, the BBC began reporting that there had been some sort of altercation at the Leipzig/Halle Airport, between the Avengers who'd signed the Accords, and Bucky and Steve. The reports also indicated that former SHIELD agent Clinton Barton, a Sokovian refugee named Wanda Maximoff, an ex-con named Scott Lang, and former USAF pararescueman Samuel Wilson had all been arrested on the charges of treason, aiding and abetting suspected terrorists, resisting arrest, and destruction of property.

There had been a serious injury as well, they learned. Tony Stark's good friend. War Machine, the media called him. Darcy and Jane had exchanged worried glances at that news, despondently considering the fallout from a nearly fatal incident with the best friend of the notoriously short-tempered, impulsive Iron Man.

And then the reports went silent. Bucky and Steve seemed to fall off the radar, T'Challa reportedly returned to Wakanda to avoid extradition, and the others were left either incarcerated or seemingly in the wind.

*

“Let's take a trip,” Jane said quietly the next evening, as they were lounging on her mom's overstuffed sofa. 

“Where should we go?” asked Darcy.

“How much do you know about the Isle of Skye?” Jane asked, grabbing a handful of popcorn and glancing at the television where a blue-faced Mel Gibson was giving an inspirational speech to his army of kilt-wearing Scotsmen.

“It's... an island?” Darcy offered, smiling crookedly.

“Off the coast of Scotland,” Jane nodded. “Home of the ancestral castles of Clan MacLeod and MacDonald. And actually, it sits on the same latitude as Norway or Alaska, which means it's a great place to see the Northern Lights."

Darcy glanced sideways at Jane. “Is that...” she began, cautiously considering her words, “Something you want to see?”

“Of course,” answered Jane. “Doesn't everyone, at least once in their lives?”

*

The trip had been excruciating for Jane. They'd traveled for nine hours by train from London to Inverness, where they'd stayed in a perfectly mediocre hotel room before returning to the train station the next morning. Their next ride had thankfully only taken three hours, to Kyle of Lochalsh, the tiny village with a ferry terminal whose sign, when they'd entered the territory, read, “Caol Loch Aillsee, pop. 739” but whose sole restaurant served the best cock-a-leekie soup Jane had ever eaten.

She had tried to keep her energy up for Darcy, but as she exited the bus in Portree, breathing in deeply the fresh island air and laughing when Darcy did her most poorly coordinated victory dance, she felt exhaustion seeping into her bones. They hailed a taxi to take them to yet another hotel and she rested her head against her friend's shoulder as they slid into the back seat, then sighed deeply, her entire body threatening to revolt at the idea of walking one more step. Darcy wrapped her arm around her shoulder but said nothing, and when Jane raised her head to look out the window at the village passing by she caught Darcy observing her sadly. They spent the afternoon making fun of the ridiculous people on House Hunters International while loafing around the tiny hotel room until, sometime around four or five, Darcy proclaimed she needed to “take a walk down to the waterfront and stare off at the sea tragically, as is my right as a lovelorn heroine”. Jane had laughed weakly and begged off, citing a need to catch up on some academic journals; she had tried reading once her friend left but the words swam disconcertingly around the page, so she tossed the periodicals aside in favor of sinking effortlessly into a deep, dreamless nap.

*

They next day brought another bus ride, this time to the small village of Glendale. They tromped out over the clean white sand to their accommodation, a rustic cottage on the beach. Again, Jane chose to sleep while Darcy went out, and when her friend returned several hours later to their cozy abode, red-faced from the brisk sea winds and full of stories from exploring the ancient Dunvegan castle, she felt pride at having successfully distracted the younger woman from her heartache.

Later, they wandered through the village until they found an inn serving dinner. They returned to their little cabin slowly, walking arm in arm to brace themselves against the raw bite of the evening. Darcy had promised Jane she would wake her up at an appropriate hour that evening to see the Northern lights, and so, trying to squash down her guilt at still not having explained to Darcy the source of her exhaustion and pallor, she surrendered once again to sleep.


	9. Countertext

Steve Rogers had landed the Quinjet as close to the city of Murmansk as he dared. He rested in the jump seat, watching the wind blow the top layer of snow around an empty field. In the distance, he could see the outskirts of town; a few lonely concrete apartment buildings and the odd snow-buried shed. He tried not to think about the pain lancing through his nerves every time he inhaled, the blood drying on his face. Bucky's hand came into view, a first-aid kit dropped into his lap.

“Found this in the back.” He turned, but his friend was already lowering the gangway of the jet.

“Where are you going?” Steve barked.

“We need food, and fuel. We barely have enough to get back to central Europe, let alone all the way to Wakanda,” Bucky answered as he gathered an armful of empty canvas duffel bags.

"Can you handle all of that without... with only one..." Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"You speak Russian?" His friend threw over his shoulder as walked down the ramp, shutting it behind him.

Steve sighed, turning back to the nothingness of the white plain before him. He tried not think about the look of mortal terror on Tony's face when he had brought his shield down to destroy the other man's suit. He tried not to think about the disappointed frown T'Challa had given him when he'd walked out of the bunker carrying only Bucky. He tried not to think about Zemo's sneer of triumph when he'd informed the Wakandan king he'd need to bring both Stark and Zemo back to the UN. 

He tried not to think about the shield he'd left behind.

He willed his mind to be as void as the blank desolation outside the jet. Then he closed his eyes and slouched down in his chair, praying to any deity that was listening to send him no dreams.

*

Later, after Bucky had woken him up and commanded that he clean first his own wounds, then Bucky's, they sat on the benches towards the back of the jet and discussed their options while they ate lukewarm ukha with black bread. They would meet with T'Challa in two days, at the coordinates he'd given them. A facility somewhere, hidden deep in the jungles of Wakanda, where they would either find a way to remove the programming from Bucky's brain or take the king up on his offer of keeping Bucky safe and hidden until they found someone who could help.

Steve didn't like it, but when he'd started to protest, he'd remembered the scolding words of Darcy Lewis. “And then we can all just let Bucky Barnes take control of his own destiny for a little,” she'd said. She was right. His friend needed to be protected but he also deserved to make his own choices about how to deal with his lingering trauma. If there was one lesson Steve could take away from the events of the past twenty-four hours, it was this.

He stood up and peered out the window at the snowy field, which gave off its own faint glow in the moonless night. 

“I'll be right back,” he told Bucky. He lowered the ramp and walked out into the night. When he was some distance from the plane, far enough away that he thought he would not be seen by Bucky, he collapsed to his knees. He pulled his fingers through the snow, relishing the cold moisture on his battered skin. Tony's words, telling him he didn't deserve his shield, echoed in his mind. He could see his former friend's wild, panicked eyes in the dark night all around him. He could see Natasha's grim scowl, still covering his ass even though it would set her on the lam again. In the howling wind, he thought he could hear Wanda's anguished groan as she tried to keep the signal tower from crushing him and Bucky. Vision had been right. Catastrophe.

He heard Bucky's footsteps crunch in the snow behind him.

“Hey punk... Look up,” Bucky directed softly. Steve did, and the sight took his breath away. Spread across the star-strewn night was a dancing, shimmering vision of greens and blues. They twisted and swayed like a living thing, and he held his breath as the colors faded away and then grew brighter, as though somewhere up above a heavenly artist was repeatedly applying brush strokes of green until the color was so bold he thought he might be able to reach out and touch it.

“It's really something,” Steve breathed, in awe.

“It is,” Bucky agreed. “You kept my secret from Stark. Why?”

“I wanted to protect him, like I said. Also... I, well, I was trying to protect you, Buck.”

“Don't feel too safe right now, Steve. Maybe you shouldn'ta chosen me over him. Maybe you should take a break from the protecting game.”

Steve shook his head wordlessly, still enthralled by the careening colors above.

Bucky cleared his throat. “I saw Darcy. In Bucharest. She told me you tried to reach out to me, when I was in D.C. She told me you been lookin' for me for a long time now. I'm sorry I ran for so long, but... I wasn't running from you.”

“I know, Bucky,” Steve answered. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“With her? Or...?”

“With her, wherever you went, whatever you were doing. Did you get the answers you needed?”

“Still got this shit in my brain.”

“It won't be like that forever, Buck.”

“No... No, I hope not. But I can't think about that yet, I don't have that luxury.”

“You leave things on a better note with her, at least?”

“Yeah, we have an understanding,” Bucky smiled secretively, then frowned. “I wish I had just stayed, for your sake. I coulda saved you all this pain, your friends, losing all of it. I'm not worth it, not worth giving up everything you had.”

“I don't think I really lost everything, not for good. Just for a while, maybe. Besides, I'm with you 'till the end of the line. You know that. And also...”

He paused, and Bucky, who had sank down into the snow next to him, looked over curiously.

“It was always going to end up here eventually. Strength invites challenge. Challenge incites conflict. And conflict breeds catastrophe.”

Bucky nodded silently. With nothing left to say about the horrors they had been through that day, they both turned their heads to the lights above, and braced themselves for the next catastrophe.

*

“Jane. Janey. Ja-aa-aaaney pie, wakey wakey. This is your friendly human alarm clock.” She felt a hand pushing on her shoulder gently and she blinked her eyes open, mouth dry and face marked from the pillowcase's creases.

“What time is it?” she bleated, freezing and disoriented.

“A little after two am. Come on, bundle up. We don't have to stay out long but you really need to come look at this sky.”

Jane's mind snapped into focus all at once as she remembered where she was and why she'd come, so she crawled out of her sheets, pulled on all of the layers she could find strewn about the tiny bedroom, and followed Darcy out the front door. The soft sand of the beach around them gave way on her first step and she stumbled, on the verge of toppling over when she felt her friend's arm link through hers, steadying her.

“This way,” came Darcy's husky voice, in her ear. There was no moon tonight and Jane could barely see, but she huddled her body towards Darcy's and followed blindly.

Darcy led them to a large wool blanket she'd laid down on the sand. They sat, and from seemingly nowhere her former intern pulled out a thermos and two mugs. She poured a drink into both and then shoved one of the mugs into Jane's hand.

“Hot chocolate,” she whispered.

Jane nodded her head in thanks and then remembering how dark it was, croaked, “Thanks.”

“Ain't no thing, Janey. Look up at the sky now.”

She did, and then she had to bite her lip to keep from crying at the vision of the Aurora dancing above them. It was beautiful. She'd spent so many nights outside, watching the stars, but as Jane tried to cast back through her memory, she couldn't recall even once when she'd felt so grateful for the things closer to home, here on her own planet. She took a deep pull of her drink. For a while they both sat there, quietly drinking and watching the sky.

Finally, working through whatever obstacle she'd been wrestling with, Jane turned to Darcy. “Darcy, I... I have breast cancer.” The words lingered in the air between them, like a tangible, malevolent presence. Darcy nodded, not looking away from the lights. 

“Yeah,” she said, still speaking in a hushed, reverent tone at the sky, “Your mom told me, that night when you fell asleep while we were watching Pride and Prejudice. I was really worried you weren't going to say anything, you know. But I'm glad you did.” She paused, looking over at Jane. “I want to help. What can I do?

“I don't know,” Jane huffed. “Stay in touch. Calls, letters, that king of thing I guess. That's what the pamphlets say friends should do.”

“I... I can stay here... if you want that. I'll look around, find some temp work,” Darcy offered.

Jane considered the offer quietly for a while. Finally, Darcy heard a faint, “No. I want you to live your life, and stay a part of mine. I like hearing about what you do.”

“Actually...” Darcy started, then faltered, unsure how to break her own news.

“Actually?” Jane asked.

“I was offered an, uh, well, a position. Like an exchange, a cultural exchange. It's a six-month thing. It's with... with the Museum of National History. In Wakanda. And... I accepted it, before I left. I didn't think, that first night, that life would get as bizarre as it has been this past week, or I would've told you then.”

Jane smiled softly. “I'm happy for you, Darce. Wakanda! That's exciting. You're going to go. No no, you've got to go, you know you do. And you're going to send me a postcard every week. And after this evil cluster of malfunctioning cells inside of me gets pulverized, because that will be happening, I'm coming to visit. And I'm going to make you play tour guide, all over...”

“Birnin Zana.”

“Right. Birnin Zana. And I'm going to crash at _your_ place, for once. Agreed?”

__

“Agreed,” Darcy murmured, turning her head back to the symphony of greens and blues and purples darting and weaving like celestial ribbons. “I'm looking forward to that.”

__

__

*

__

__  


**+40 21 200 3300** : I'm letting them put me back on the ice, Darcy. I'm no good to anybody when I can't control myself, or when somebody else can say a few words and control me. It's not forever. I meant my promise. When I'm back in control, you'll hear from me. So keep yourself safe until then.

__

 

__

**+40 21 200 3300** : I love you. 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much if you read this beast, or Fata Morgana, all the way to the end. If you have a minute and wouldn't mind, I'd love to hear what you thought of either of them or the story as a whole so far. I think I've been working through some of my own issues by writing this fic (sick dad, live very far from my family)... it's been a bit of an exorcism for me, so it's hard to look at the story objectively and I'd love any/all feedback.
> 
> That being said, I could never ever leave the characters in such a dark, sad place (although it felt right for the themes of this story) and if you want to continue reading (maybe? yes? please? :D) there will be one more long, multi-chapter part to this series and then a short, coda-like fic. So... more to come, very soon. Hope to see you there.

**Author's Note:**

> "An aurora, sometimes referred to as a polar lights or northern lights, is a natural light display in the sky, predominantly seen in the high latitude (Arctic and Antarctic) regions. Auroras are produced when the magnetosphere is sufficiently disturbed by the solar wind that the trajectories of charged particles in both solar wind and magnetospheric plasma... The resulting ionization and excitation of atmospheric constituents emits light of varying color and complexity." (Wikipedia)


End file.
